The Fall Line

by Mark T Sullivan

  “No,” Farrell said, and he pinched his finger. “Nothing. These negotiations have me on edge. I just need a vacation.”

  Maria drifted onto the porch, carrying trays of cold tuna sandwiches and lemonade. Maria managed to get the dishes onto the table without spilling anything. She placed her hand on Gabriel’s left shoulder. He covered it with his right. “I think I’ll take a nap,” she said. “The heat.”

  “That would be best,” Gabriel said. He patted her hand and she floated away.

  After they ate, Gabriel said: “So what is so urgent?”

  “Let me get my briefcase,” Farrell said, wiping at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. He rose, crossed inside the open double doors, and grabbed the case. He reached in and removed a report, a phony scenario Stern had developed. He closed the briefcase, snapped the outside latches into place, then as fast as he could, twisted the tweezer of metal over the thin metallic knob. The recorder vibrated slightly.

  Farrell set the briefcase on the ground with the voice-activated sensors facing Gabriel and Cordova. He leafed through the report. He was a salesman now, speaking in a breezy, but earnest voice. They listened as he recounted the paper profits they’d posted on the land deals and the potential for future gains. Farrell didn’t know what he was hoping for at that point—an affirmation, a grunt, anything audible Stern could use to establish complicity. They sat mute.

  Farrell talked on, worrying that he might be babbling, worrying that he was blowing the situation.

  “What’s the point?” Gabriel said finally.

  “I just wanted to make sure we all have the same historical perspective.”

  “We are well aware of the procedures and records,” Cordova said.

  Farrell wanted to kiss him. He leaned forward and pointed at Cordova. “That’s why I’m here. We’re becoming too set in our pattern.”

  “Go on,” Gabriel said, pouring another glass of lemonade.

  “The two realty trusts that I’ve organized to purchase the border properties are not—how shall I say this? blind enough?” Farrell said. “Given my constraints within the bank, I can’t organize more than one corporate shell between the trust and myself.”

  “Why not?” Cordova asked. “It seems simple enough.”

  “Domestically, it is,” Farrell said. “My fear is that if everything is organized in the States, someone with a strong nose could root out the only link. And to be frank, that’s me.”

  Gabriel pressed his fingertips together and stared at the roof of the veranda. “What are you asking for?”

  “That we move more of the documentation off-shore, in effect laundering my role out of the situation, even though I’d still be in charge.”

  Gabriel squinted. “How would it work?”

  “Through some people I used to work with in Chicago,” Farrell began. “They know a man on the island of Tortolla in the U.S. Virgin Islands, an American, who specializes in realty trusts and corporate shells. He has contacts on the Isle of Man and other safe havens. He also develops property in Arizona.”

  “No contact has been made yet?” Cordova asked.

  “An initial phone conversation of perhaps twenty minutes,” Farrell said. He thought of Stern and how he would play his role.

  “What are the banks he works with?” Cordova asked.

  “Mostly Grand Cayman institutions and one in London,” Farrell said. “But his primary function is that of link to foreign notaries. I believe through this man we can organize a system to purchase properties along the border with so many corporate steps between us that we and our clients would be invisible.”

  They questioned Farrell closely on his analysis of the costs of working through a third party versus creating their own organization. Stern, Kennerson, and Farrell had discussed that scenario at length.

  “I think we can go with our own people, once we understand his system,” Farrell said. “Once we are educated, we cut him out.”

  Cordova stood and walked to the bannister of the veranda, his thick hands disappearing under the dense vines. “On the phone you mentioned problems with Customs documents,” he said.

  “Actually the IRS raised the issue,” Farrell said. “Since the first of the year we’ve been contacted twice by IRS representatives to discuss the new requirements on cash deposits and cash transfers.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve spoken with a number of local San Diego bankers who report similar calls,” Farrell said. “My fear is that though we’ve managed to keep documentation to a minimum so far, they are tightening the screws. I think we’re better off moving the cash in trucks across the border into Mexico, rather than continue with the wire transfers.”

  “Too risky,” Gabriel said. “We got burned several times a few years ago when the shipments were discovered by Federates at the border and the money confiscated. We had to make good on the loss—almost six hundred thousand dollars.”

  Farrell tossed the report on the table. “And I’m telling you our old methods cannot handle the present cash volume, not to mention what we’ve forecast, without detection.”

  Gabriel traced his fingers over the blue manila surface, but did not pick up the document. He crossed his legs and said: “Why don’t you go settle into your bedroom, take a shower. Jorge and I will read the report, discuss some things.”

  Farrell picked up the briefcase by its sides, realized the grip might appear odd, and shifted it so he held it by the handle. He wobbled when he took his first step. Gabriel half rose in alarm.

  “Too damn long on the plane,” Farrell said. He made a show of rubbing his right knee. “Maybe a shower would help loosen me up.”

  Farrell paused on the slope of Buck Mountain. His boots were sopped through. He groaned—even at this high altitude, the snow remained slushy. What sounded like distant cannon fire snapped him around. He looked frantically out into the minaret spires of granite and snow that ran out for fifty miles around him. Now came the low booming sound of the ocean against rocks. The roar built, then faded.

  He examined the different peaks with the binoculars for almost five minutes before he found the evidence: a jagged line perhaps twenty-five yards long cut below the rim of a rock face; below it the bubbled and torn surface of the snow gave way to a jumble of ice and dirt and debris. It looked like a chain reaction crash of a dozen white cars on a deserted highway in a desert of soft, white sand.

  Farther away came another crack, another moan, as the mountains shed their winter skin. The noise faded. Farrell climbed again, slower and more cautiously now, toward the chute that led to the snow field below the peak of Buck Mountain.

  A half hour later, Farrell’s thighs burned. He wedged his pack into the snow and drank from his water flask. He unstrapped his shovel and dug a three-foot trench, finding to his surprise that at least on this slope the more recent layers of the snow pack had bonded well. Deeper, however, the pack appeared fragile. The hoar, the deep frozen layer, was rotting from the water that percolated down from the surface. He crushed a handful of the brittle crystals in his hand as a small sun ball—a chunk of snow that breaks away under the direct heat of the sun—rolled past him down the chute.

  Farrell looked up from where the ball had come. “This would be like climbing a pile of marbles,” Farrell said, thinking out loud.

  He reshouldered his pack and zigzagged slowly back down the slope, thinking of how he’d showered at Gabriel’s house and returned to the porch an hour later. Dusk had crept up the sides of the hills toward the bleached white villa on the ridgeline. His blue manila report folder was in exactly the same position he’d left it. Gabriel offered him a rum. Farrell watched him pour the brown liquor over ice, add soda water and a twist of lime. Gabriel handed Farrell his glass. As Farrell raised the drink to his mouth, Cordova said, “You are still an amateur even after all this time.”

  Farrell lowered the glass, noticing how in the twilight the dove boy’s bulging eyes seemed to glow. “How’s that?”

  �
�These IRS officials,” Gabriel said. “You’re telling us they didn’t ask to see records?”

  The ice cubes clinked against the side of Farrell’s glass. He brought the tumbler down fast onto the arm of the chair and folded his hands in his lap. He cursed himself for not moving the briefcase closer; he’d left it near the door, next to a bush. With the two men in different positions now, Farrell could not tell if the microphone was pointed in the right direction.

  “They didn’t,” Farrell said. “They called and asked about the increase in the capital reserves, which I told you about before.”

  “What did you say?” Cordova asked.

  “That we were establishing closer relationships with the Southern California and Northern Mexico real estate development community and deposits were up. They seemed satisfied. I’ve had no follow-up visits. Why the amateur crack?”

  Cordova said: “A professional would have figured out a way to create more distance between the corporate identities a long time ago.”

  “Funny, I seem to remember you being satisfied with the operation four months ago,” Farrell snapped.

  “No bickering!” Gabriel said sharply. “We are just upset at some of the news you brought and others that we have only just received.”

  “What news?” Farrell asked, watching both men carefully.

  Inside, beyond the window at Gabriel’s back, a light turned on; the light emanated onto the porch and, Farrell realized with discomfort, illuminated his face. Gabriel and Cordova’s features, however, received only side lighting, so portions of their faces were swathed in shadows like a portrait by Rembrandt. Maria crossed the glass scrim at the back of this stage and disappeared.

  “Did you know you were followed from Guadalajara and we believe from as far as San Diego?” Cordova demanded. His eyes were now those of a dead bird: opaque and dull. The golden light from inside the hacienda hit Cordova’s open mouth at a peculiar angle. The effect—of purpled tongue against fluorescent teeth and flamed cheeks—was immediate; Farrell shivered and felt a short, quick stream of warm liquid in his crotch.

  “My God,” Farrell whispered. “My wife doesn’t know anything.”

  “The hell with your wife,” Cordova hissed. “We think they’ve been watching this house for months!”

  Farrell’s right arm twitched involuntarily and struck his glass, which crashed on the tiles. The spilled liquor spread and evaporated on the surface still hot from the day’s sun. Gabriel leaned forward, staring at him. Farrell’s thoughts raced to possible exits. The federal bastards had walked him through every possible scenario save this one. He seized on ignorance.

  “Who’s watching?” Farrell said. He began to pant and ran his fingers back through his thinning hair. “Who’d follow me? My God, the bank!”

  Gabriel stood, lit a cigarette, and paced. “No auditors have been to see you?” he demanded. “No new employees?”

  Farrell trembled. “No new workers. No audits other than the usual quarterly meetings with the FDIC.” And this was true; neither Stern, nor Kennerson, nor any of the other federal authorities to whom he’d told his story, had ever set foot inside the bank. Farrell had smuggled out each file he thought worthy of their attention and they had copied them during the night.

  “There’s something missing,” Cordova said. “It stinks.”

  “Nothing reeking on my end,” Farrell snarled. “Maybe you’ve got the leak.”

  “No fighting now, I said!” Gabriel said.

  “No, I want Jorge to answer that,” Farrell said. “This is my butt on the line here, too.”

  For an instant he thought Cordova would rise out of his chair and one of his fists would swing. Gabriel flicked his fingers. Cordova relaxed back into the chair, sagging like the bag in a vacuum cleaner after the plug’s been pulled. They’d been playing him, Farrell thought. Good cop, bad cop. Kennerson and Stern used the same technique.

  “Almost everyone who works for us is a relative or has been known to us for a very long time,” Gabriel said.

  “Since when has blood or familiarity bred loyalty?” Farrell asked.

  A rustling and brushing of feathers sounded in the night as the pea flock roosted. The men said nothing.

  Farrell waited, studying them until their silence was intolerable. “How do you know I was followed?” he asked.

  “We have our sources,” Gabriel said. “An agent with the Drug Enforcement Agency rode the plane with you, approximately two seats behind yours from San Diego to Los Angeles to Guadalajara.

  “From there the surveillance was continued by Alejandro Fosca, a member of the national police narcoticos detail, who is—how shall I say?—well known to us,” Gabriel said. “Fosca was supposed to leave the trail at Colima, but he continued on at our request and noticed you were followed by one of the two maricon painters who rent the villa behind us.”

  Farrell decided bewilderment was the obvious course. “Painters? How long have they been there?”

  Cordova said: “They put down a deposit on the property back in late October, early November. And then they did not take possession until mid-February. We thought nothing of it until Fosca’s report. They’re probably agents, too.”

  Gabriel dropped the cigarette stub to the ground and scuffed the sole of his shoe across it. “The DEA told Fosca they believe you are somehow involved in narcotics trafficking, but they can’t figure it out exactly.”

  “But how?”

  “They didn’t offer and didn’t bite when he asked,” Gabriel said.

  Farrell stood and crossed out of the main shaft of light, rubbing his hands together, searching for a viable lie. “It’s got to be my boss, Jim Rubenstein,” he said. “He’s the only one with access to my records.”

  Cordova and Gabriel burst into laughter.

  “Doubtful,” Gabriel said. “Rubenstein is married to Fernando De La Leon’s second cousin, Isabel. He lives in terror that he will hear the whistling breath of Rodriguez late one night.”

  Farrell was speechless. The anger which had ebbed to a slow boil bubbled to the surface again; he had been played into this game as carefully as any of the marlin these two men had trolled for and fought to the deck of their boats over the years. Worse, he realized the perception of himself as a cool, dispassionate operator was pure delusion: he’d been read as a weak mark, conned. He leaned over the railing. “Rubenstein watches me. Jesus Christ.”

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” Gabriel said. “It was just a precaution.”

  Farrell pressed his cheek against the cool adobe stanchion. “What are we going to do?”

  “Jorge and I have discussed just that this last hour. At a minimum we shut down your operation. No action may be our safest course.”

  “What about the man in Tortolla?”

  “I guess I wasn’t making myself clear,” Gabriel said in a cold, hard voice. “It stops.”

  Farrell considered pursuing the issue, then dropped the idea; he was thousands of miles from home and peering over the top of a very high cliff.

  Cordova said: “We must operate on the assumption that our communication system has also been infiltrated. After tonight we will be severing our ties for a few months.”

  “Don’t call us, we’ll call you?” Farrell said. “Forgive me for being bitter, but this sounds like I’m being set adrift in a rot-bottom boat.”

  “Don’t take it personally,” Gabriel said soothingly. “I think upon reflection that this will be the best course for all concerned. Their interest in you may wane if your activity suddenly desists.”

  “And in an emergency?” Farrell asked. Thunder echoed behind him. Lightning flashed from a storm coming ashore.

  Gabriel and Cordova exchanged glances. “We will arrange something,” Gabriel said.

  But Farrell could tell it wasn’t true; in their minds, they’d already cut the rope and he was falling away from them down a very steep slope.

  The memory of Mexican thunder mixed with the distant roar of snow breaking away from the
mountains as Farrell slid and climbed his way back down the hill. By the time he had emerged from the trees above the lake, Portsteiner had fished his way farther along the shore. Ruby spotted him before Portsteiner did and thrashed through the snow and brush to meet him. He grinned as she sprinted toward him; she’d gained weight the past few days and the gash on her shoulder was covered with a thick scab. He slapped at her wiggling butt while she yelped and whined with pleasure.

  “Saw you break out above the tree line about an hour ago and then stop,” Portsteiner said. “Thought you were going higher.”

  “Didn’t need to,” Farrell said. “Friable depth hoar, no sign of a surface freeze overnight and at least one sunball.”

  “Shit. I thought I heard cracks up there.”

  “I counted five,” Farrell said.

  “No climb up the Teton, then?” Portsteiner asked.

  “Not if I can help it,” Farrell said. “How’s the fishing?”

  “Four macs,” Portsteiner boasted.

  “Enough action or you want to stay on?”

  “Let’s hike out,” Portsteiner said. “I’m hungry.”

  Farrell led the way down, recalling the funeral mood at dinner at Gabriel’s that night. His inclination had been to return immediately to Colima and go standby on a return flight. But Gabriel and Cordova felt such a move would raise undue suspicions on the part of the watchers on the hill.

  “If you act like a courier, you’ll be treated like one,” Cordova said. “It could be ugly.”

  Maria said little during the meal. The red sunglasses were gone, and though Gabriel seemed to be rationing her wine, he had the uneasy suspicion she’d been doped. Midway through the main course, she pushed her plate back. “I have little appetite tonight,” she said. “I think I’ll retire.”